


The Game

by ShamHarga



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Old Republic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShamHarga/pseuds/ShamHarga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the visit to the transponder station. "I don't expect your mercy." Quinn will find forgiveness is not so easily granted, while the rest of the crew get a rare opportunity to challenge a Sith.</p><p>Slight AU in that in this version Quinn has been rendered incapable during the Corellia and Baras endgame for the Sith Warrior storyline. Includes Quinn/Sith Warrior relationship with all the unhealthiness that involves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
It is hard to wake. A clanging nausea hounds his thoughts and his throat is tight. Not promising.

He doesn't move: assume the presence of an enemy and maintain any advantage as long as possible. No sounds betray the presence of captors but Quinn knows that cameras are silent hosts. Best to let the path of consciousness guide him quietly. Sensations begin to cut through the fog and without a visible twitch he lets his limbs report. He is seated, with no regard for his comfort he is compelled to note. Cold metal bites each of his wrists; his hands are pulled behind him, chained separately to a leg of the chair. Danger confirmed. He can't work the cuffs without being seen, best to assume they are well-made and tight. Any combat strategy must take his hands out of commission until he can persuade someone to release them.

His legs are unshackled but heavy, their response is muffled. His boots are on at least - thank Force for small mercies.

The air is stale. Temperature between 19-22 standard. A regulated environment. Yes: he catches the tick of the circulation system under the hum of distant engines. He is in a ship. Or possibly a bunker. His vestibular system is blaring motion warnings despite the solid floor and steady background noise. Appraisal should factor in dizziness. His odds are becoming distasteful.

Other symptoms: Sluggishness. Confusion: he ought to be able to identify all major vessels and Imperial locations by their mechanical pulse alone but right now the hum is just an irritation to his head. His tongue sticks in a papery mouth. Sedation is the most likely cause. Of course it is impossible to rule out brain damage, especially with the sour blast of kolto assaulting his nose. Ironic that impairment is extensive enough that his ability to estimate extent of impairment is compromised. Ironic and hateful. 

A door hisses open. He keeps his eyes shut. Footsteps. Two pairs, ringing heavy on a metal floor. It doesn't narrow it down. Darth Baras, a Republic ship, one of Imperial Intelligence's so-called secret bunkers; he could be facing anything.

'Wake him up.' Her voice is a spike of clarity and immediately he knows why he's here. What he's done. What he tried to do. 'Now.' she orders.

'It'd be my pleasure.' Quinn hears the Lieutenant but with reactions running at 74% speed he doesn't predict the first punch. With no time to exhale, the fist to his stomach slams the air from him and dazes him for a second blow. Through swimming eyes he sees her boots leaving. 

He wants to answer to her, not the low-ranked oaf. It's demeaning. Not to mention futile. He calls for her, his voices only a wheeze, but her steps pause and he knows she's heard him. The next blow rattles his head and when he cracks his eyes open fully he is alone with Pierce. 

Alone, stuffed into a kolto suit and chained to a medbay chair. Simply galling.  The ginger idiot cracks his knuckles and leans in close. 

'Are you ready for this?' Melodrama becomes the man about as well as his hideously vibrant breastplate.

'I'll be sure to inform you if I you cause me the slightest inconvience.' 

The uppercut snaps his neck back. Pain sings and warmth blossoms in his chin. It's nothing he can't blink through. Pitiful. If the man was trained properly he would know to relish subtlety. Fear is granted in the understanding that the body is just flesh and wires. The subject needs to be shown that nothing is immutably whole. That nothing is sacred. That all it takes is something as slim as a knifepoint or a finger to strip the illusion away.

The next fist barrels into his gut. The right flinch absorbs enough of the damage. Stupid man. Start small. Let the victim know you've got plenty of time to work your way up. Rushing headlong is amateur and risks wearing out the weapon before the victim. He will never understand the reliance on fists. Weapons are where you find them. Even if all you have are words.

Pierce steps back to admire his efforts. He is clearly determined to blather interminably. 'Jaesa begged for the right to be the one in here.'

Unsurprising, Quinn supposes, that they all know. His Lord can have no interest in protecting his authority. He can't help but feel the sting that his failure has been shared. 

Pierce smiles as he continues, 'The little Sith girl said it would be a valuable experience. But the commander thought I deserved the privilege.'

Even through the clanging of his jaw, Quinn recognises it as mercy. Pierce is a brute. Jaesa is an aspiring artist. He despises the man, but he has to admit it is a relief to be in his unskilled hands. 

'It's an honour above your talent, Lieutenant.' He hits his target. Pierce bristles and winds himself up for another round but anger makes the brute sloppy. Quinn finds it easy enough to cordon off a part of his brain to submit his torturer to assessment. He considers himself generous to grant a full 9.0 for power, and expects execution to fall far short. A measly attempt of 4.2 proves him right. Despite facing arms borrowed from a bronto and an unyielding chair Quinn can easily anticipate the punches. 

3.5. Then 3.2. The next is only a 2.8. Pathetic. He manages his breathing: exhale on the body blows, tongue behind his teeth for anything about the head. 

3.8. 4.2. Pain slices through his mental shield, still he keeps the circuit broken to his voice. Denying Pierce satisfaction is an inspired motivator.

Better. 5.4. 

The impact crunches like M.T.V treads. He admits a 6.2. Not enough to be impressive, but Pierce begins to hit his stride in his own workmanlike way.

7.8. Pain lassos his chest. He refuses to cry out, but when the next blow hits the same spot the scream tears from him. Coronas of pain flare through him as Pierce laughs. The brute's fists wrench another three cries from the same agonizing spot before he tries to repeat the success on his other side. Quinn scrambles to occupy his thoughts, thrusting his brain into a worn memory path. D _elineate the standard construction of an MR assassin droid._ Academy papers year one and three.  _Core. Creative simulation matrix._ Breath hisses through his teeth. Shallow breaths. The pain stoppers the instinct to scream.  _Emotional Construct Matrix optional - extra credit for consideration and justification in conjunction with Apathy Unit. Droids in use over repeated missions can, in certain -_

Pain explodes in his cheekbone. He chokes and his own hot breath blasts back off Pierce's arm. 

Next system. Next system. Ha -  _cognitive systems_ .  _Human skull requires only 600lbs force to damange cognitive systems._ Don't think it. Don't think about how much longer you can go. Keep the pain in the moment. Don't do your torturer's job for him. 

The next system is memory matrix. The stabbing in his side throws frothy nausea up his throat.  _Memory matrix. Memory matrix. Motor function._ His lungs are on fire. If he must suffer the indignity of vomiting he vows it will be right on Pierce. No more than 20% collateral spatter.

Pierce grabs the back of his neck and thrusts their faces close enough to count as cruel and unusual. The sweaty furrows in his head glisten revoltingly. 'What are you thinking, stuffed shirt?'

_Fool, Quinn; missed out Sensory Systems Matrix - 10 marks lost,_ is what he thinks. But he says 'You are asking a speeder to hold pace with a bantha.'

It's not his best jibe, but the confused crease on Pierce's face provides a balm greater than any test paper.

'It means can't find words small enough for you to understand.' He relishes the explanation, even as the blood in his mouth dulls his consonants. Pierce growls; a bestial retort. Bantha was a generous insult.

The wound in his chin blooms as Pierce wedges a fist in his jaw hinge. 'If you can't find the words, how 'bout I try to knock some out?'

Quinn truly despises the thought of permanent damage but his hands are cuffed tight and he knows there is nothing to be done with his feet that could gain more than a momentary advantage. Yet doing nothing is anathema so he tips his chin into Pierce's waiting fist so the leaking blood oozes across his knuckles. He crushes the fear in his gut until it is diamond. 'Lieutenant, I order you to try.'

'Superceded.' Her voice could tear a planet from orbit. The fist at his jaw pauses. 

He pulls his head to attention and is uncomfortably conscious of his swelling eye and distinct lack of uniform. She strides into the room and he gets his first proper look at her. She is radiant in the truest sense: the power of her extending far beyond physical body. She is undeniable. That is, not to be denied.

Pierce tries, though, his bloodstained fist wavering. 'I'm not quite finished.' he wheedles.

'Leave us, Pierce.' The Lieutenant obeys, with a grace for which he ought to be shocked to the deck. Instead his hulking shoulders slouch away into the ship unscathed.

And Quinn finds himself alone with his Lord for the first time since she hurled him at a bulkhead. A captain and his commander. Despite everything, he has not been officially relieved from duty.  She inspects the damage to his chin, eyes following the trickle of blood onto his collar where he can feel the warmth of a stain spreading. He is conscious of the blasted med suit. He longs for the dignity of his uniform, to feel the weight of the Empire against his breast. However, he supposes, blood would be a tenacious stain on his dress grey. 

She brings her face to his, close enough that her breath traces his cheek, yet keeps her hands stuffed in her pockets. She is usually so fond of touching. It is not an affliction he suffers, but he likes the way she wears it. It is most unnerving to see her so buttoned up.

She sighs. 'It seems a waste of the kolto, but Pierce did deserve it after what you did to him.'

Her tone is casual, almost affectionate, so he hazards an answer, voice low for the sake of his ribs. 'As you say, my Lord. Although when I faced the Lieutenant he was armed and standing.' 

'Yes. It thought I would be kind to level the playing field.'

It still feels good, the velvety praise she bestows on him. 'You flatter me, my Lord.' 

'No I don't.' She snaps. Her tone is dark and weighted with something terrible. 'I never underestimated you, Quinn.' The sentence lingers, like a thought half finished. He doesn't know what it means, or even if it's for him to complete, but feels a desperate need to know. Before he dies he would have them understand each other. But she stays silent and moves away from him and he feels whatever time he has left slipping from him like hot drops of blood. 

'My Lord -'

She turns her back to him, resting her hands on the diagnostic console. She pauses, refusing him a look at her face until she turns with a smile. It is not her own wicked grin. It is a smile belongs to someone who has studied the principles but never practised the execution. Alarm pricks the back of his neck. Slowly, and with open, empty hands she walks behind him. 'Stay seated, Quinn.' comes the purr at his ear that thrills him with fear and the echo of desire. He feels her moving the manacles. If he twised his head he could push their heads together. Feel her hair against his cheek, mark her scalp with his teeth. 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall ahead. 

The taste of her power brushes his tongue and for the first time he feels the true horror of it. He understands the effect her presence can have, many of his manoeuvres have counted on it, but he has never before been exposed to it, naked in the maelstrom of her strength.

He's in no position to challenge anything she asks.

Her presence wraps around him before her hands brush his, warm and steady and it is electricity straight to his spine. He is flooded with the rush of relief that she is not dead; poisoned with the knowledge that he failed to kill her. Despite all rational sense, she survived. More than that: she triumphed. His calculations had been meticulous; granting her only a 0.03% odds for success. A nod to statistical integrity more than anything else, just a gasp of hope against the weight of hard reality.  He should have known. She has always lived in those spaces, wielding slivers of chance against reason. Logic was torn apart in the force of her personality.

She leaves him sitting, waiting, and returns to fiddle at the stim station. Death by poison could take many forms, some truly distasteful. He is ashamed to find himself afraid. His hands are now free yet she has her back to him, paying him no attention. He runs through the different ways he could kill her. Even for the Sith weak spots are the brain, the balance, and any high pressure artery. But for every plan he needs an advantage he doesn't have: poison; a good angle; the element of surprise. Most importantly, he no longer has any orders.

Exposing her back is ananimalistic display. It's the confidence that he cannot hope to harm her. And she's right. She's the Sith that he doubted she was. How infuriating that she can still confound his expectations.  He hates that she has done this to him, making him doubt and second-guess; snaking into his veins and changing his very chemistry, scarring him with the ghosts of pleasure and the gnawing craving he can't shake. She is the noise muddying the signal, that makes thinking so difficult. He has practiced hating her, for her youth, for her recklessness and her keenly exposed weaknesses. And it terrifies him that he just might love her.

She completes her preparations and makes pains to assemble a kolto injection where he can clearly see. She holds it out for him. He doesn't understand. He observed the process, as she wanted, and has 95% confidence that it is not all just a ruse to poison him. It's not her style. But the injection itself is not nearly enough to heal his wounds – not the snapped rib or the loose tooth. It's just a token to kiss the bruises away.

He takes it, unsure. In his hands the slim tube could easily be a weapon. A splinter for an eye, the shattered case a vicious round of teeth. Or a swift jab plunging a tiny, death-smuggling bubble in just the right place. He could attempt any of these.

He plunges the tab into his arm and his muscles sigh as the kolto gets to work. It will not entirely deafen the pain, but muffles it enough to stand. 'That is much appreciated, my Lord.' He pulls his posture as much to attention as his throbbing rib will allow.

She squints displeasure at his voice and her had twitches at her belt. Her lightsaber is missing. He must have been truly disorientated to miss that. A Sith and their lightsaber should be indivisible. Was its absence to prove she didn't need it to destroy him? Or something else?

'Get dressed.' she snaps, thrusting a finger at a pile of clothes folded on one of the beds. He eases himself over and she sits in his vacated chair giving him little to do but dress in front of her. She clearly expects him to hesitate so he shrugs his way out of the med suit with as much speed as he can manage. He is confronted with a climate support suit - the dark one with the high itchy collar. Mission gear is a surprise, he would have expected dress uniform for his execution, or at least the tight grey one that he know is is her favourite. For a moment he pictures a mission briefing, imagines the pleasure of atoning and reconciling a place in the Empire between his two Sith masters. He terminates the foolish thought. He is well aware the penalty he faces: the thick black fabric is ideal for absorbing bloodstains. 

He tries not to wince as he fumbles the final buttons, fingers less responsive than he'd like. She notices and is not gentle as she slams his wrists back into the cuffs, although his training kicks in to remind him to be helpful and ensure his wrists are bound in front of him, not yanked behind. She leaves his feet unshackled and pilots him with one firm hand into the corridor.  She walks him slowly through the eerily empty belly of the Fury. Every buck of the floor sends shards through his side.  There are no sounds of turret fire so such violence on the thrusters shouldn't be necessary.

'Have we encountered company?' he ventures. If his death is to be public he will risk fire and lightning to affirm his honour. The men and women of the Empire, his peers and those bastards who kept him down must hear that he always acted for the best. 

'No.' she says, firmly. 'And I wouldn't expect any company if I were you.'

'It had not crossed my mind.' He answers honestly. Darth Baras did not reward failure. There would be not ships coming for him, unless it was to clean up. Death here or death at Baras' hands: he knows the only hope lies in the fine detail.

Pressure builds sideways and he adjusts his gait awkwardly, his shackled hands near useless for balance. The ship's dampeners must be suffering terrible abuse; he itches with the thought of damage to Imperial property under incompetent hands. The ship lunges and this time he stumbles. He slams backwards into her chestplate and a blistering scythe cleaves through his torso. He steadies himself against cold metal as the ship struggles to compensate for the flaws of its pilot. He hisses as the scythe strikes again and her hands tighten on his shoulders. As the pain recedes he swears he can feel her heart pounding against his back, striking for him through their clothes. 

For a second they stand, silent, in a shadow of intimacy until she draws a sharp breath and bundles him into the hole before the airlock. Easy to clean, he thinks, and then wishes he hadn't. Someone - Pierce - hisses the door shut after their entrance and watches as he is forced to his knees. His Lord stands before him, her face flushed with fury, and she glares down at him, kneeling, hands bound, forced into a traitor's bow.

He has prepared for this - any officer worth his rank should. And yet he does not feel ready. Not with death so close he can see its teeth. It should have ended with a flash, in battle, without time for regret or fear. Clean. 

He clings to one thought. He might have regrets but he is not ashamed. He has done his duty. 

She speaks. 'If you have anything to say, now's the time.' 

He is an officer of the Empire. He will not beg. 'I have betrayed you. Conspired with your most hated enemy. I know it is meaningless to express my deep regret.'

'You call that a defence?' Pierce scoffs.

In his fantasy, Pierce's cervical vertebrae pop like grapes beneath his fingers. 'I don't expect you to understand the demands of loyalty.' he spits. 'Or service to a greater -'

'Loyalty?' She pounces. Her face vibrates inches from his. The accusation escapes like blistering air from an exhaust port. 'Your superior wanted you dead and I held his throat for you. Mine tried to bury me alive and you jumped to finish the job. I'd steer well clear of smugness if I were you.'

He can still feel Broysc's blood coating his fingers. The sweet release of it. And her wonderful, satisfied smile. But personal was not the same as important. ''I – the empire – owes Baras a great debt. I deeply regret that I had to choose between you.'

She snaps back to standing. 'I am Sith, Quinn. Choosing power over devotion doesn't bother me.' The lie bleeds from her in the shiver of her hand, the tightness in her cheeks. He spies it in the way she tosses out the words – too casual, too practiced. He remains silent and she winds up into monologue. As she talks, she wrestles her anger back under control until it lies in wait, a coiled, dark promise below the surface of reason. It is the true air of a Sith. She is learning fast. He is suddenly very sorry that he will not see her peak. 'I need more from my Captain besides loyalty, Quinn. My Captain must be skilled, deadly, and intelligent enough to find the winning side of every battle.'

'I failed you, my Lord.'

The leash on her fury snaps. 'In every way possible! How dare you challenge me and  _lose_ ?'

The hurt twists her face despite her attempts to mask it with anger. Nothing he can say will smooth it, no matter how strong the desire. It is that instinct that has brought them to this. It will do her no good to hear how their intimacy exposed her as the lesser Sith. That he wrapped himself in her weaknesses until he could stomach destroying her. Her youthful naivety. Her fiery obession with the moment. How fragile she looked through the crackle of the hacked cameras in her quarters. It had seemed necessary to compensate for his affection. How clear now that his judgment had erred too far the other way. He holds head high. An officer must not surrender accountability in the face of death. 

'I miscalculated.' It is painful to admit but he keeps his voice steady. 'I don't expect your mercy.'

It takes her an agonisingly long time to respond. Appropriate, really. When a Sith made a decree the force itself listened: once said, it wouldn't be unsaid. He hopes to whatever luck he has left that his sentence will be short. He's seen the remains of people who received long reprieves under Darth Baras. He has a strong stomach but the thought of those red twisted faces still makes his pulse shiver. 

'I don't intend to kill you Quinn.' He does not doubt he has heard her correctly. He knows there is a cruel semantic chasm between kill and bleed by inches so he checks his hope until Pierce of all people gives him comfort by muttering his disgust. He would have expected noisy protest. The Lieutenant's complaint is old and festered and he realises that she has planned for mercy from the beginning.

It feels like he's taken a leap off the Kaas Needle. His arteries flash with the joy of still being intact. The relief of a future floods him with a million stars.  He has witnessed Darth Baras defenestrate an officer for failing to alter the weather. Every Imperial knows what the superiority of a Sith means. Mercy and common sense were tools for inferior men.

Yet today proved that she had the strength to destroy him and the wisdom not to. She was singular indeed. It was impossible not to adore her down to bare grit and sinew. She is waiting for him to speak and he will not disappoint her. He wants the oath to be solid, something he can shape and lay at her feet. 'If you will permit me to remain in your service, my dedication will never come into question again. I will assist your retribution against Darth Baras without a shadow of conflict.' 

'Ha! You'll have to try pretty hard.' 

'Pierce! Her shout knocked the Lieutenant against the bulkhead. The man staggered and shrank satisfyingly under her fury. 'I invited you here as a generosity. But don't you dare put your pleasure above mine. Close your mouth before I stamp it shut.'

'Aye m'lord.' Without instruction, Pierce takes up a cowed position by the inner door. Even with his hands bound shut and the grilled floor biting his knees, Quinn delights in his superiority over the mud-head. This is a glorious moment between him and his commander. She kneels before him, hooded golden eyes locked on his.

She is achingly still. 'Let me share a pertinent story, Quinn.' In defiance of his complaining side and a tingling left leg he kneels to attention. Her eyes slip from his; distant but sharp, as though shaving through the ship and planets to some other place. 'When your master tried to collapse a mountain onto my head I was given a day to prove my worth. I tore the skin from my fingers clawing through shrapnel and blood and my own stinking flesh.' He remembers. It had been the day he realised that his terror for her was something unusual. Dangerously far beyond unprofessional. Her hand is at his wrists, and he feels the same unprofessional flutter as her fingers scraped th sensitive plane below his palm. One sharp tug and his restraints are released.

He could reach for her neck and squeeze. Not until she asks him to.

'I pulled myself up.' she continues. 'I made myself stronger. I proved that I deserve my place.' She stands, using his shoulder both for leverage and to keep him on his knees. She is shining before him, proud, powerful and carved from something so much more alive than flesh. How different from the shell that emerged from that cave; grey and crippled, sustained by desperation. He remembers how he'd forced himself to look as he analysed her wounds; to catalogue every weakness the bomb exposed. It had never occurred to him to search for strength. It is unmistakable now – she is radiating power. The sight takes his breath away.

'You failed me Quinn. You must prove yourself.' She releases his shoulder and pulls a vibroknife from her belt. He recognises it as his favourite – slim and dark. A shard of certainty to bring order in a chaotic, selfish world. He won't stand yet. He will wait for her order. He will swear an oath in blood, throw himself against any enemy, sacrifice himself against her skill if that was her command. He has never been more certain of anything. He feels her study him – patient, powerful, demanding. She is everything he wants for his empire and his empire has given her to him.

'Yes, my lord.'

She slips the knife into his pocket and nods – but not to him. Too late he notices the rebreather strapped to Pierce as the man hefts an arm round one of the racks and slams the other into the pod emergency release. The alarms blurt once before the override chokes them off. A dreadful screech behind him rattles his bones and sucks air practically through him. The airlock! She'll kill the lot of them! He snatches a lungful of fleeing air and flings himself forward. He must make his body as large and obstructive as possible.

He falls towards her feet. The deck clatters his elbows and she catches his collar, smashing his chin into her fist. His chin bursts again but he can't feel it above the terror. She is grinning down at him, heltmetless. It is insanity; even she couldn't defeat the void outside the ship. Except – new factors arrived by the microsecond - gravity is asserting itself painfully, and air outside clatters and screeches. He twists his head as much as he can, glimpsing a window of white ripping past.

'We're in atmosphere?' He can barely hear himself above the icy chaos at the end of the tube. No wonder the ship has been bucking - from here they are practically shearing the surface. It truly is insanity.

She holds him close, her eyes glittering as she shouts to be heard. 'I was given a day to prove myself. You are not me. I'm granting you a week.' 

Five days? Against the cold he won't last five hours. He's battered and dazed, armed with nothing but a knife and the fading nuzzle of kolto. He can already feel death breathing at his neck.

'Dromund Kaas. Docking bay 147.' she orders, her voice tearing in the howling air. 'If you're not there, I know I'll never see you again.' No. This can't be goodbye. Not sacrificed to the damn snow without saying anything. Not now he understands.

'My Lord! Please!' 

She yanks his ear to her mouth and the threat is the darkest kiss he's ever been given. 'Don't disappoint me, Quinn.'

Her hand drops him and he staggers on the quaking deck. Now her boot hits his chest. The force in the kick takes the deck away from him. In one heartbeat he is clean through the airlock. He hears his own scream ripped from his throat and then nothing but howling, tearing white. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the blatant abuse of a Pratchett quote; I just liked the subversion here.


	2. Chapter 2

The Emperor's Wrath screams into the white abyss. 

It's the only thing she can do. As the hatch closes the parting sliver of Belsavis reveals snow melting to the first stubs of prison blocks. Their feral inhabitants will hurt Quinn, if he makes it that far. She thinks of those prisoners, all exposed knuckles and brutish violence and she is still not satisfied. Rage simmers beneath her skin. 

It should feel wonderful, but something is souring the pleasure. The fury howls with expectation. It reminds her of a time when she was younger, young enough that boys still dared, a handsome acolyte had held her on the edge of an orgasm, winding the tension without release. How it felt unnatural, and glorious. And  _infuriating_

She can feel Pierce behind her, his presence itchy. It wouldn't take much to slam him to the floor and grind him until the metal left pink tattoos on his backside.

Perhaps not. Besides, she's wearing the robes with the unhelpful buckles. 'Pierce.' she orders without turning. 'Assemble the crew in the comm room. I have something to say.'

He scuffs away. It's a pointless command. They'll all be there anyway, crowded round the security viewer. Teeth bared and baying for Quinn's bloody comeuppance. She sympathises with them. Her nerves buzz with the anticipation, longing for the final blow. Her empty saber holster weighs againts her thigh. Funny how the absence of it feels heavier.  

She means funny in the irritating poetic sense. Not funny ha-ha.

The camera stares. 

She holds out her hand and calls her saber back to its rightful place. There is a metallic clatter and a burst of pompous stuttering from the passage beyond before it whistles into the room and nuzzles her hand. A perfect fit. The beautiful sleek shaft glares at her. How galling for it, to be left behind. She wants to apologise, to explain it's not the saber that she didn't trust, but the red eye of the camera intrudes. The promises between a Sith and her lightsaber should remain private.

She turns her back on the hatch knowing that Belsavis shrinks beyond it, and strides into the corridor. The ship droid has been knocked over into a rigid pyramid in the passageway; a slight scraping on his head where her lightsaber carved its path. Twovee scrambles to rise but haste overclocks his hyraulics; as his feet root to the floor the rest of him cuts a graceful 180 arc over his hips until he topples flat on his back, legs spinning ineffectually like a kathpup in an engine.

Now that  _is_  funny ha-ha.

She steps over his head.

'My Lord.' he blusters. 'May I say how impressive you appear from this angle.' 

She knows, of course, but it is nice to hear. She tweaks the Force to tip him back on his feet and his clattering step follows her into the comm room.

Her crew is a gossipy huddle. She had severed the audio playback on the cameras, although she doesn't want to examine why too closely, so Pierce is the epicentre of a storm of questions. The truth can just about be sniffed out beneath a slurry of fibs, slanders and imitations of high-pitched grovelling. Quinn's expression when she tells him about this floats across her mind; the plots of little revenges scribbling themselves deliciously across his face. 

She stamps the image out.

Pierce finishes his story and she watches as they fall over themselves with suggestions of how it could have been improved. With sharp things and heavy things, and sadistic twists of hope. She smiles. They are her crew. Creative. Cruel; Quinn would have needed several lifetimes to endure the punishments they've advised these past weeks. Obedient, too. Usually. When it matters.

And they could never be accused of being the Empire's most desirable. To hell with the best and brightest; she likes her band of unwanted hand-me-downs. She fancies it makes her eccentric. Gives her character. And to think some Sith waste mountains of creds on makeup.

That said, right now her character is running its collective mouth off.

She plants her feet wide and crosses her arms in the intergalactic pose of Sith requiring an audience. Only Broonmark sniffs the air. 

'Your Lord is waiting.' She uses the voice that has caused at least four soiled uniforms in the Imperial ranks. To their credit her crew just stops and listens.

'I have something to say.' She says, redundantly. A trick she has pinched from her former master. It's always worth reminding people who is doing the saying. She studies her little rabble. They appear attentive, although in Broonmark's case it's hard to tell. At least he has the slouched shoulder of a lesser animal bowing to the biggest and meanest. Beneath the scruff they have the bearing of a loyal, respectful crew. But posture can be faked. Violence is pure.

'Are you well, Master? Your emotions are unsettled.' Jaesa's lurid mouth twists disapprovingly.

'I'm perfectly fine.' She snaps. Her feelings are her weapon. The rattling in her gut is surely just excess energy looking for a heat sink. 'And it is not your place to divine my emotions.' She continues. 'Any of you.'

The way Jaesa is looking at her tugs the hairs on her neck. When her apprentice's pretty eyes narrow they get the sheer black look of a firaxa, sniffing out weakness. She retreats to thoughts of Baras, to her former master's expression as she stood over him, triumphant. She bathes herself in the memory of the fury in his piggy eyes flaring and then snuffing out for good. Vengefulness smooths around her like a cloak and Jaesa seems satisfied. It shouldn't be such a relief, she's not here for anyone's satisfaction.

'Do not persuade yourselves that what is happening to Quinn is mercy.' She announces. 'And don't any of you dare think that if you betray me I'll hesitate even for a second to cut you down.'

The air tightens with fear. Good. Only Jaesa doesn't seem nervous. 

'I would never challenge you, master.' Her voice holds only breathy sincerity. But it was a fool who believed it. Apprentice or Master.

She ignores it. 'However, I wouldn't want anyone to claim that I am unfair. I have given Quinn some days to prove himself. I propose a game while we wait.'

She samples their feelings as she lays out her offer.  _Each crewmember gets one attempt on her life_. To start, a thick plain soup of confusion.  _Without repercussion, without threat of excessive harm except that which she needs to defend herself._ Now the heavy stench of fear with a tang of suspicion. _All may employ whatever method they deem most likely to succeed_. She detects a spicy shred of excitement.  _The offer is one time only and extends only until the moment of Quinn's return. After that any threat can expect the full force of her revenge._ There is much fidgeting. She inhales the sharp bouquet of terror. A fine palate cleanser.

Showmanship dictates that one should always leave an audience wanting more. Besides, she can feel Jaesa's nostrils twitching - butting and probing against her feelings. 

'That is all.' she says, striding towards the cockpit. With nothing to fuck or flay in there, Jaesa is unlikely to follow. She calls over her shoulder for Vette to be ready to relieve her at the helm. 

The clang of tiny boots echo her own. As she skids into the pilot's deck she receives a shock. There seem to be two constellations: the drag of the sky across the view screen as the autopilot drifts though the orbital channel and then the command deck itself boasts a riot of red lights.

'Um.' said Vette, behind her.

'What the hell have you done to my ship?'

'Exactly what you told me. It wasn't built for low surfing in atmo.'

She does not rage or yell. For one thing, she is above it; for another she vaguely remembers some high pitched protests that ended with a conversation along the lines of someone's headtails being tied to the catalytic converter if they couldn't learn to obey commands.

'What's wrong with it?' She plonks herself in the pilot's seat. Vette would take care of the actual work, but the social superior deserved the ergonomic padding and drinks holder. 

'Red lights.' Says Vette, settling into the copilot's seat.

Her patience for Vette is like watching a mynock attack power cables. It can take two or three bites before the mynock suffers an entirely predictable bolt of electricity.  'Which means what?'

'Don't know.' Vette replies. She swivels to face the twi'lek, if only to be within lekku tugging distance. The whole situation is simply ridiculous. They piloted this ship without Quinn before. She had led capable and very successful life before scooping him up from a Balmorran pit. The Emperor's Wrath does not let things descend to the indignity of red lights.

Vette is poking around on the dash. 'Quinn made a lot of upgrades. I don't recognise half of this. This one here -' she jabs at one of the offending lights 'looks like we either have a problem with our banthas getting all romantic, or it's recommending we serve longfruit with our steak. I don't know if you've tried longfruit but I can tell you that would be a mistake. I don't think it's that bad though. We're still breathing and the lights aren't blinking.'

Vette forgets the force has a sense of humour. The copulating banthas immediately start flashing.

'Oops.' Vette's voice is much smaller.

The Emperor's Wrath is not going to die in dead space over a planet of savages. She thumbs the communication panel and pings the orbital station for a priority docking. It's almost a shame to waste special treatment on an actual emergency. Vette is twitching, no doubt wanting to claim that it's only when the alarms go off that you need to worry. She interrupts her before she can tempt the Force once again.

'Get us to the station in one piece. And mention it if we need to hold our breath or anything.'

'And if I actually spot any banthas.'

She spins out of the pilot seat and heads direct to the escape pods, just in case. She checks her rebreather and suit. It's still robust, intact. And as flattering as the cut can be on vacuum-ready gear, in a black that brings out her eyes. She jabs at the kit for the rest of her crew, checking for obvious flaws or breaches. Quinn's suit is still hanging in its regulation casing: pristine, cared for. Regularly turned over in precise hands. Cold, careful fingers slipping round the seals with practiced speed. 

She doesn't sense the danger until it's upon her. Later she thinks it must have been the threat of imminent decompression that distracts her mind, clouding the approach of her hunter.

She dives forward, keeping herself a coiled spring as something scythes over her head. Her attacker lunges for her and she wedges a knee to rock their own weight against them. There is no blaster shot, no lightsaber snap. This is a fight of muscles and teeth. She heaves herself onto her foe, pinning him with her weight and the force that cascades through her. A heavy arm swings and pain flashes in stripes across her side. She shouts, the force bringing thunder to her voice, and plows her fist into his face. Another arm lashes and she tears this one aside before launching her fist again and again into crunching, weeping bone.

Sounds blubber below her. Something is not right. She drives a fist again. The rage is just, a vibrant vital chord, but the face below is a discordant white. She closes her eyes, pretends the seeping, matting fur is dark hair on pale, beautiful skin. The hooting grows more desperate. The beast's cries are all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Disappointment smothers her rage allowing her to grasp for the reins of her emotions. She recalls the vow she made; to not hurt her challengers excessively. Her plan won't work if the rest are too scared to test her. She steps off the defeated figure, now swimming into focus as Broonmark, and lifts him by a mangy arm. At least he can wobble to his feet.

'That was your attempt.' She finds she is panting. 'You lost. Now find Twovee, get him to patch you up.'

The ship judders. An alarm keens on the edge of hearing. She could just take a pod right now; zip away to safety, sip a near-miss cocktail and conscript a new ship and crew. It doesn't count as backing down if the fight she faces is against failing machinery.

'You should feel free to wait until you know we're not going to explode.' She says as she elbows past the shaking, stained carpet back into the ship.

She hits Pierce before the cockpit.

'We dying?' He asks.

You all are, she thinks. 'I am protected by the force.' She says. 'But Broonmark will require kolto.' Pierce is a soldier; he can stand service as a medic, surely?

'Funny you should say. Med bay is cleaned out, I can't find any stims. And you want kolto? What we didn't waste keeping Captain Tightarse under for days on end we used patching you up after you -' Pierce wisely stops himself mid-thought.

'After my glorious and swift victory against the traitor Baras.' 

'Yeah, that whole thing. Upshot is: no kolto, no boosters.'

The alarm from the cockpit gives one final squawk then falls silent. She lets out a breath. 'Pierce, I will glide over your adrenal drain on my purse and move straight to the question of why you're bothering me with this.'

Pierce squishes his face in a way that silently but very clearly communicates that the person who usually bothers with it recently had an intimate experience with the airlock. 

'Fine. Fine. We'll be hitting orbital in 7.' The ship bucks again. 'Or in pieces. Make a list of the supplies and hope we're alive to need them.'

She pulls herself into the cockpit, which is eerily absent of glib remarks or chirpy Twi'lek cursing. Vette silenced. Pierce searching for a chemical edge against impending danger. Perhaps they really are in trouble. 

Her twi'lek is easily soothed with praise. 'You fixed whatever caused the alarm. Adequate work.' 

Vette's knuckles are pale on the shuddering controls. 'That would be the alarm system.' 

She look. The alarm system is shattered, wires split and weeping as if beaten with a small but insistent instrument. 

Blood and hell. The ship screams and jolts her half to the floor. 

She could spend these moments reliving her greatest triumphs, picking over the carcasses of bloody victories. She could dwell on the threat of a cold gasping death. She could try to guess the peak temperature of a Fury-class engine explosion and exactly what damage that does to human bone and sinew. Instead, she feels an invisible hand grip her shoulder; the ghost of pink, clean fingernails ignoring decorum to give a brief, encouraging squeeze.

How mortifyingly sentimental. The floor pitches and warning lights burst in her periphery. She draws on the Force, burning with a single glorifying purpose: that embarrassment will  _not_  be her final thought. Her power swells and blooms, as she pulls beyond herself she hears her own laughter in deep untouchable breaths. She will stretch through the ship, cocoon straining components, fortify the creaking metal shell or toss flaming parts into space. She will tow them through space herself if she has to. She will not die with weakness still staining her thoughts.

She will not die here.


	3. Chapter 3

Commander Bevan I scowls over the leisure quarter of Belsavis orbital station. The Emperor's Wrath takes a reptilian stretch across his head. Where her foot dangles, his marble brow carves into an impotent frown. An official with more nerve than hair had complained that she is resting on a priceless artwork but he will not tell her twice.   
   
She arches over the statue's smooth pate, letting each burning ache soak into cool marble. Wrestling a ship with only the Force has left a bruising kiss in her muscles. She enjoys the pain as it seeps away, each twinge a trophy of her strength. She knows that she is powerful but it is so much more satisfying to prove it.  
   
News of her unconventional landing still sparks in the air, as does her battered ship itself. Station workers scuttle over its shell like termites, digging through fizzing cables and strained metal. All service provided at a very reasonable price. The quote from her second mechanic plummeted when she wiped some of the first from her boots.  
   
From her perch on Bevan's head she can survey the entirety of the lounge. Dregs of soldiers dribble between swaggering clans of mercenaries and private security. An aide or two flits from store to store. None of the glittering chains of nobles and Sith lacing the fountains and bazaars of the more civilized worlds. No one comes here unless they have to. She catches the occasional glimpse of her crew, scurrying from store to ship with burdened arms and loaded satchels and, one memorable time, Pierce and Broonmark balancing what appeared to be a cross between a cannon and a lounger between them. Neatly evading the horrors of expense paperwork she has granted them access to her cache and it would appear stocks have run very low in Quinn's absence. Basic foods and fuels were covered by the droid, but she has been surprised to discover how many other things are necessary for her ship to run correctly. Vette is insistent that their current toolkit doesn't even have left-handed synth rope and needs to be wholly replaced. Before now she didn't even know there was a difference between chocolate pudding and choco-sweet but it is apparently vitally important to Pierce’s diet.  
   
She wonders how Quinn juggled all their costs on the official Imperial stipend. She didn't trouble herself with reading his accounting reports, although she admired the neat way their dates piled in her mailbox, but he had never mentioned that space mites can only be warded off by luxury perfumes.   
   
She itches to interrogate him. Against all sense a bank of thoughts and questions are growing within her, the mundane and important all jostling together, things that only he could tell her and that will die with him. That - she forces herself to be realistic - have probably already died.   
   
The thought should be pleasant. He is a traitor and deserves an icy painful death in the freezing maw of Belsavis. She conjures images of him blackened and facedown in ice or tossed between slavering mandibles and tries to stoke a vengeful fire in her belly. All she raises is a sour prickle that crawls up to lodge in her throat.   
   
She has to get away from here. Every second in this damn place she feels the pull of the planet beneath her boots. The gravity feels unnaturally heavy. She can feel it weakening her.   
   
What has happened down there?  
   
Jaesa sashays past, toying with something new and shiny and barbed. She envies her apprentice: Jaesa can find distraction anywhere, given a sharp stick and a lower lifeform. The Emperor’s Wrath has no indulgences to occupy her here, on a bare and boring orbital station. She wants things only a civilised planet can offer. Comfort. Beauty. Cuisine. Battle.   
   
And, suddenly, hope flutters in. Of course, when a Sith demands, the Force provides. A pinpoint neat lieutenant with deliciously slicked hair clicks to attention before her.  
   
'My Lord.' Behind him quivers a train of attendants, each holding a polished and stamped box, their golden corners brilliant in the artificial light. 'I am glad to find you here, Emporer's Wrath. I have the honour to present gifts from Darth Pryar.'  
   
Darth Pryar. An old Sith. She remembers his pale skin, damp and puckered like pickled vegetables. His influence is waning; he is a dusty relic respected by those who prefer tradition to power. She knows only this little about him. Apparently he knows far too much about her. She sets her mouth into a smile against a spike of suspicion.  
   
'A generous gesture.’ She purrs. ‘Such a coincidence that you find me here.' She is no fool. She hasn't shared her plan for Quinn with anyone and the crew have been threatened into silence. But someone must have exposed her mercy. Her weakness. She is too soft. Someone will have to lose a tongue for this.  
   
'No coincidence, my Lord.' The lieutenant bows his head sharply, the narrow canyon between his slick hair a flash of white. 'Darth Pryar has sent parties to every major battleground in an attempt to find you. He was most keen to express his congratulations.'  
   
Ah. She doesn't have to take anyone's tongue. It is a relief; in all honesty she is not sure what she would do with it.  
   
She beckons over one of the carriers and lifts the edge of a crate. The contents glisten a warm and familiar bronze. Her stomach lurches. She lifts one of a neat rank of bottles and pretends to read the label. She doesn't need to. It's Stereb whiskey. One of Quinn's favourites.  
   
A civilized indulgence crafted by brutes, he called it. She considers it a fiery hell-drink that self-professed sophisticates only pretend to like with the stench and burn of swoop fuel. Quinn always said it was for a mature palate. Apparently disliking the taste of flaming engines is a sign of immaturity.  
   
But then perhaps it was just a judgment on her; he never thought she was ... sophisticated.   
   
It would be so easy to crush the slim neck in her fist. Harness her fury and explode the damn crates. But even an unsophisticated Sith knows better than to expose her feelings so openly.  
   
There is a sharp whistle as Pierce lives up to his name. 'That will put hairs on your chest.' He rubs his neck appreciatively.  
   
The Lieutenant is affronted. 'It is a Pearl vintage, minor-alloy shelled whisky of impeccable provenance from Darth Pryar's private collection.'  
   
Pierce shrugs and pats the side of the box. It makes a lovely tinkle that reminds her of smashed teeth. 'It'll put stylish hairs on your chest.'  
   
She is grateful for Pierce in many ways. He doesn’t fuss, or ransom himself to culture. He likes results, and violence, and pleasure. He doesn’t complicate things. And he’s made the sniffy Lieutenant rock on his heels in irritation. She thinks she ought to reward such service with a gift. That would be the sophisticated thing to do, after all.  
   
'Pierce, you may escort these crates to the ship. I believe there is secure storage in the port dormitory.' His bedroom; his broad grin shows he understands her generosity.  
   
'With pleasure, my Lord.' Pierce heaves two of the crates onto a single shoulder, triggering squawks of panic from the attendants who circle and flap at him as he jangles towards the ship.  
   
'Wait.' She calls. 'Place one in my quarters.' She isn't without manners and this is a gift from an established Lord. She doesn't have to drink it. She has nothing to prove to anyone.  
   
She turns back to the lieutenant. He is over-enamoured with maturity and clipped and clicky in a way that grates at her memory but he has served his Lord well and has handsomely dark eyes. It is appropriate to grant him a favour.  
   
'Lieutenant, I grant you privilege of returning my gratitude to your Lord.' He doesn't look nearly grateful enough. In fact, he seems more preoccupied with the boxes clinking their way on to her ship, shifting uncomfortably in his polished boots, sweat tickling his brow. She sniffs. Nerves are respectful; perspiration is excessive. And suspicious. She is about to press him further, preferably with the heel of her boot, when a mechanic appears at her elbow and snares her in a report. Within four sentences she is lost in a maze of status reports and engineering jargon.  
   
She fixes the mechanic with her most disdainful glare. His freckles give the most satisfying quiver.   
   
'All I need to know is if you have done your job and fixed my ship.'  
   
'Yes, my Lord the Wrath.' His ginger curls spring like a gizka in a turbine as he bows his head repeatedly. 'But I must warn you that this vessel has many custom fixings and additions. If not given proper care you risk future damage. From the state of her she has clearly suffered some uncivilised treatment - without someone who knows what they're doing -'  
   
She doesn't like his tone. She says so, with that little half-step that reminds peons just how close they are to raw power.   
   
'My humbled, humbl _est_  apologies, my Lord, I meant only that some modifications require expert - not expert, not expert! - simply more _focused_ care. That is to say from someone without your important duties, my Lord.'  
   
What did this hateful jelly of a man know? She had employed an expert - rescued him from some squalid little planet, trusted him with power and access and her own special interest - and he had decided he was too good for his position. There is a wide-toothed saw scraping down her nerves. She wants to launch someone into the ornamental pool and hold them down until the thrashing stops, to grip clipped black hair until the silky tendrils float in still water.   
   
The mechanic clenches his datapad like a shield, his face as red as the springs of his hair. She can feel the Lieutenant at her shoulder and the steady trickle of his retinue pooling into a silent audience.  
   
She spits at them all. 'You're dismissed.'  
   
She launches herself into the breast of the statue, digging her heel into the crook the sculpture's disapproving arm. She doesn’t allow herself the satisfaction of watching them all flee. She can’t turn her face to them; not while this anger is so wildly out of shape, pulling her face into unpredictable expressions. She tries to swallow it down. It sticks in her throat and really it should, to attempt it is unnatural, too like a Jedi. Her emotions should be her power, to be disguised sometimes, but never to be fought.  
   
But anger should be blazing, invigorating. Thoughts of Quinn should be greeted with righteous golden fury, pure and purifying. Instead her feelings are bleak, black, twisting.  
   
She shouldn't have sent them all away. She needs to be occupied. The mechanic's howling apologies would have coloured the awful silence. With the station this quiet there is nothing to do but feel gravity suck at her.  
    
Wait. The station is too quiet. No scurrying, no business. It is not hushed reverence. This is the vacuum of fear.   
   
Oh, this will be _interesting_.  
   
A livid slice of Sith advances across the vacant station, blood red cloak billowing in his wake. It strikes her that it is a shame she can never truly see how she looks bearing down on an enemy. She's sure it's a sight to behold.   
   
'Wrath!' the Sith screeches, his voice boyish. 'I have grievance with you.'  
   
He stops several paces away, squaring his shoulders against her in a dueling stance. She does not recognise the features behind his petulant scowl but then she rarely knows any of the bugs that line themselves up for squashing.  
   
She takes her time sliding off her perch. 'Do you indeed? That is most presumptuous of you.'  
   
She plants her feet square to him, pulsing her power through the cold breath of the station. She settles her weight low, toes clenching and unclenching in her boots, ready for attack. She is eager for this.   
   
'What business can you have with the Emperor's Wrath?'  
   
'Our father has exiled me from his line. In favour of you.' The boy's yellow eyes are wild. His hand is careless on his lightsaber hilt as he waves it agitatedly.  
   
'That would be most impressive of him. My father is dead.' Her father was a well-respected Sith, who indulged too much and dropped dead after one child, which all things considered was a wise move, before she usurped all of his successes.  
   
She is alight with anticipation, fingers tight around saber, coil spring in her feet ready to leap or dodge. She is a well-oiled machine, giddy with single purpose.  
   
'Your slut of a mother bedded my father. And now he wants you to take my place.' He is frothing now, yellow eyes twitching. 'But I will prove myself when take it back from you. I can take it all from you. My father will have the new Wrath for a son.'  
   
He leaps, lightsaber roaring. It is nothing to dodge the attack and let him sprawl past her, saber sputtering across the floor.  
   
'You're mad.' She announces, for the benefit of the eyes watching in the shadows. She hardly cares for her father, other than for his good name and excellent fortune, but she knows appearances are almost as important as both.  
   
Her prey scrabbles at her feet. Fight and flight war in his eyes. He needs to find his feet or his weapon before she takes them both from him. She can taste his rage. It is a scrawny thing, contorted and constrained by envy, but is it pure. It inspires, in its own pathetic way. She pulls her own power to her, makes her hate a lightning rod for the bursting, lancing force that dances across the skin of the world. Let this worm see what rage can do with proper breeding.  
   
'You really think we share blood?' She licks her lips, tastes her own anticipation. 'Perhaps I should take a closer look.'  
   
His eyes spark with fear. Flight wins out. He launches himself away from her plunging saber. The sudden kick of his force staggers her.   
   
She plants her back foot, bunches the force through her step and back into leap straight at his weak side. His saber is back in his hand, he counters her swing, knocking her balance as two red beams scream and spit.  
   
She falls away from the sparks, transfers her momentum into undainty backward skips.   
   
Her blade stays up for his advance and she knocks his next sweep away. Foolish boy. He should push her back. Steal her balance.   
   
She pulls away again. She feels thunderous, brilliant. This is electricity. This is joy.  
   
She dodges a claw swipe and laughs.  
   
His form is sloppy. Each move is telegraphed. He flails for his speed and drowns in it, rather than rising across the wave of it. She detests him. Despises his presumption, his incompetence. She deserves to destroy him.   
   
As he lunges in for a side swipe, she arcs her right arm up, knocking his hands away and punches her left fist to his stomach. She flicks on her second blade.   
   
The smell pierces even her rage; the acrid tang of the body failing before the soul. Yellow eyes bulge with pain. His weight drags on her arm. His mouth slackens and she jumps back to avoid his slumping lightsaber.

He shudders and jerks on the deck, pulsing like the thump of her heart. She is alive with hate, brimming with satisfaction. She breaths it in, heady and powerful and glorious.   
   
As he struggles through his final wheezes, she leans in for the final cut.  
   
'Your father is right; you are a disappointment.'   
   
His last breath is spent spitting hatred, summoning the memory of Baras screeching and seething as his pinched eyes rolled over white. The boy is a Sith at least, to revel in anger even at the last. Fear is for the bystanders, who come creeping and chittering from the shadows to celebrate the victor and assess the damage.   
   
Vette is one of the first, as usual, dashing to the prone body and patting pockets. Unable to stop her mouth for even a moment, she chirps as she slips credits into her belt.  
   
'Could he do that? Just kill you and take your job? I wouldn't want to work for someone who thinks that is a flattering moustache.'  
   
She thinks, that's not how it's done any more. She has a position, and favour. An attack on a Sith of her standing is no longer just an attack on her, but on the Emperor himself.  
   
'I would have to be someone different. Someone weak.' she says.   
   
The way up the mountain was like that - tear at the climber above and kick down those beneath. She knows down to her core that she was built for that fight, her every cell crafted for the battle of Master and Apprentice; a perfectly honed weapon pointed in a single direction. Now she's at the top, she feels foreign winds whip around her. There are allies and servants everywhere, and each one holds an enemy in wait. Holding the peak requires more subtle methods.  
    
She wishes she knew what they were.  
   
Nobody has warned her what to expect now but she knows that it would be suicide to ask. She can’t predict the weapon they will use, but she can feel the shape of it, trace the outline of it even as it is cloaked in shadow. Hidden strikes by unnamed masters. Nudging hands undermining her position. Attacking through those she can trust.  
   
Loneliness stabs, so sharp that she fists her chest to check the boy didn’t get a lucky hit. There is nothing, but the impulse was foolish. Through a wash of horror she scans the bristling crowd, but Jaesa is mercifully nowhere to be seen.

Chattering at her feet, Vette does not notice her weakness. She zips her pockets and tugs a ring from a cooling finger before standing. She holds the ring up to the harsh light of the station twisting it between blue fingers, trying to catch the shape of a crest embossed on the gold. 'Well that's that then.' she says. 'Still, tough performance review.'


End file.
